


Enyo

by pprfaith



Series: Like the Greeks [2]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: All the Peter, Alpha Derek, Alternate Pack, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Angst, F/M, Failwolf, Female Stiles Stilinski, Genderswap, Helpful Peter, I'm sure I'm forgetting some tags, Meta, No really he's not my favourite, Pack Building, Pack Family, Post Season 2, Psycho Peter, Rule 63, Sassy Peter, Scott's stubborn streak doesn't make him any friends, Some Plot, Stilinski Family Feels, Violence, Warning: Kate Argent, Weak Attempts at Humor, Why does AO3 keep tagging 'Freeform' onto everything I say, some gore, some ptsd
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-16
Updated: 2014-04-16
Packaged: 2018-01-19 15:52:09
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1475461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pprfaith/pseuds/pprfaith
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is totally done with her origin story. This? This is their coming together arc. It’s weirder than she expected it to be, but also less painful. It’s a plus.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Enyo

**Author's Note:**

> This is the sequel I would have written even if no-one had asked for it. Thank you to those who did. It would have been embarrassing otherwise.
> 
> I went over this five times, so I _think_ I caught most mistakes, but my head's all over the place lately. If you find anything too horrible, please shoot me a line. 
> 
> Concrit, as always, is appreciated.

+

The morning after Stiles helps a minotaur (fucking _minotaur_ ) gore her alpha, she wakes with a crick in her neck and said alpha half on her lap. 

She’d take a peek at his injury, but he’s actually lying on it, because he’s a dramatic masochist who’d take the blame for global warming if he could and punish himself accordingly. 

Stiles has a list of things that are actually Derek’s fault and it reads like this:

1\. Jackson turning into a kanima. (He fixed it.)

2\. Erica and Boyd running. (They came back.)

3\. The fact that Stiles will die of tetanus if he doesn’t move into an actual home soon. (True fact.)

Kate and the fire and Scott’s assholeish behaviour, all those deaths, Peter, Peter again, Lydia’s breakdown. Those are all things Derek blames himself for, along with every bruise anyone in the pack has ever gotten, but he’s wrong. Sometimes, shit just happens and people make dumb choices and things don’t work out. Life, dude. Life. 

She nudges him in the ribs, watches him wake in increments and smiles when he yawns. “Morning, Sourwolf,” she says, and feels… lighter.

She can hear the rest of the pack stirring at the back of the house, where there’s a makeshift kitchen, can tell that someone’s lingering in the hallway, watching her and Derek. It’s Peter, and it’s more reassuring than creepy, which she will freak out over later. 

Not now. 

“I kind of need to get home. I told my Dad I was crashing with a friend, but he gets worried if he doesn’t see me before his shift and starts calling around.”

Since her dad still thinks her circle of friends consists of Scott and sometimes Lydia, her lie would blow up on her pretty quickly because there’s in way Scott’d catch on fast enough to cover for her. 

That, and the fact that they’re still walking on eggshells around each other, because he hasn’t forgiven her for all the lying and she can’t forgive him for that, even though she knows he’s right and she’s wrong and she has no right. None at all. 

Derek grunts and rolls to his feet, wrapping the sky-blue fleece blanket he was sleeping under around his waist. It’s tacky with dried blood on one side. Derek’s face is still smeared with flecks of rust, too. They match.

He motions for her to get up and walks her toward the door like that, unashamed and bloody and silent. On the lowest porch step he stops, turns and grabs her by the hips, pulling her close until their foreheads bump. He closes his eyes and inhales her, not like he’s scenting, but simply like a man relearning to breathe.

This is new. 

Stiles runs a hand through his hair once, nails scraping at his scalp, and then pulls back. 

“Later, guys,” she calls, knowing all of them will hear. 

She waves as she pulls away. 

+

Saturday is spent with Scott, playing Mario Cart until he begs for mercy (again). He tries complaining about all the people she smells of when he first enters her room, but she gives him a long, flat look.

He shuts up with a simple, “It’s weird. My wolf wants to mark his territory, or something.”

“Oh my god, you are not pissing on my leg, Scott, what the hell.” She smacks him. “And even if I were into watersports, which, eugh, it’s not okay for you to feel possessive right now!”

Because forgetting is not an option and the forgiving is still happening. He ducks his head and it reminds her of how it used to be, Stiles leading the charge, Scott wheezing after her, and maybe that’s not fair, but she misses it. She misses looking at Scott and seeing an idiotic younger brother instead of… this. A man. A wolf. A boy. Something in the middle.

“I’m working on it,” he says, which means so many things from _sorry_ to _I don’t know what I’m doing_ , and Stiles answers, “Work faster.”

On screen, she runs him over. Twice. 

+

The most important lists are always red.

Even now that Stiles has stopped writing all of them down because that’s too dangerous, the most important lists are still red. They’re just red inside her head. Too many things are, these days. 

The reddest of all red lists (alpha red) is something she has been terrifying herself with all through summer and straight into fall. It grows and shrinks periodically when Erica nuzzles into her neck, or Isaac smiles at her, or Boyd goes stoic and lost next to her. 

It shifts when Peter looks at her too long and Scott gets caught between rage and guilt but she always keeps it locked down tight, in her head, in the red stuff piling up there. 

But then Derek has to go and do shit like fall asleep on her and rip out throats for her and so she whittles it down to the three (four) most pertinent items and writes it down.

+

He’s alone when she gets to the house, sitting on the sagging sofa with a book in hand and a bag of chips in his lap. It’s so normal that she blinks at the sight of it, rubs her eyes. Nope. Still Derek, lying around, reading. 

She runs a hand through his hair and steals a fistful of chips before coming to a halt in front of him, waiting to be acknowledged. 

He lowers his book and puts it, and the bag, aside.

Like a twelve-year-old with a Valentine’s card, she sticks out her arm, folded piece of paper almost hitting him in the face. He takes it, looks at it, looks at her and uses ESL (Eyebrow Sign Language) to communicate confusion.

“It’s a list,” she says, bites her lip until she tastes hot pain and adds, “If you read it, you can’t hate me. It’s not… I just… had thoughts. On the subject. Many of them. And it’s not… I don’t want to make you angry, or insult you, but…,” a shrug. “By the lake you said you’re not a good alpha, so.”

She nods once, decides to stop before she hangs herself completely and adds, “Bye now.”

She makes to flee, but Derek is a ninja among werewolves and grabs her wrist, tugging hard enough to send her sprawling onto his lap with a yelp. Then he buries his face in her neck and just. Holds on. 

“Dude?” Stiles asks, and when he doesn’t even pretend to care what she wants to say, she stills and lets him be weird.

After a minute, he lets her go. She brushes stray chips crumbs from her ass and flees. 

+

How to be a ~~Good~~ Better Alpha:

1\. No more secrets.

2\. We need to bond. All of us. 

3\. Let us be kids. 

~~4\. Let us in.~~

God, fuck it, Derek, just let us in! Please.

+

She expects… well to be honest, she expects Derek to creep through her window so he can properly eviscerate her for daring to critique his technique because one throw-away comment almost three months ago is not permission to get all up in his shit.

Except for how everything since then kind of might have been. 

Nothing happens.

She expects the betas to stuff her into random lockers on Monday.

Nothing happens, except for Isaac’s bland comment of, “Thank God it’s a school day. Derek’s been in a foul mood.”

So. Yeah. 

+

After school, Stiles is made to sit in the bleachers while the lacrosse team practices. She kind of used to do that anyway, back when it was only her and Scott, but before the summer, there was always a catastrophe that needed tending to and now…

Stiles used to stay for Scott. 

But Erica grabs her and tows her outside with a snarled, “Those idiots are my ride, I have to wait for them, life sucks.”

Because there is a pack meeting, apparently. Stiles has not been invited.

“It’s about Jackson,” Erica says because that is something that happened. Jackson is back. 

He just kind of swanned in this morning like he isn’t three weeks late for the beginning of the school year, smirked at everyone and slung his arm around Lydia, who has been laying low these last weeks. 

He called Scott a dozen vile things before lunch, smirked at Stiles in a way that means he’s mentally undressing her and punched someone in the face. These are all things Jackson does. It’s on Stiles’ list of Reasons to Hate Jackass Whittemore. Item number one of that list is _seventh grade_. 

Because unlike others, Stiles has an actual, legitimate reason to despise Jackson. Even if she doesn’t. 

Reasons to Not Hate Jackass Whittemore: he has never once used Stiles’ mom in his tirades. He once tipped fucking Greenberg into a pool when he got too close to not accepting no for an answer from Stiles. He didn’t hesitate to go after Peter with her. He loves Lydia and he never once touched Stiles when he was a lizard. Never. Not once. Not a single claw. Even when she got in his way.

“You mean he’s joining the pack?” Stiles asks, eager for news.

Erica nods wisely. “Isaac said he walked right up to Derek yesterday, bared his neck and asked to be let in.”

Stiles blinks. That’s personal growth right there. But then the reason Jackson went scaly in the first place was because he didn’t know who he was and where he belonged. It makes sense for him to look for those things now. It also makes sense for him to join the pack that saved him because, God knows, it would have been easier to kill him. 

(Derek listened to her when she told him he couldn’t. Derek usually listens to her. That means something.)

“Seriously?” 

“Yep.”

She shakes her head. “That’s some shit, dude,” she drawls, then leans back against the next row of bleachers and closes her eyes. Life is… almost good right now. Erica snorts and starts playing with Stiles’ hair, wrapping strands around her fingers and twisting them into curls because that is the kind of hair Stiles has. The kind you can shape with your fingers. 

Stiles lets her, if only for the novelty of having a female friend who actually does things like that. Or any female friend at all. Lydia is more of Oh-shit-we’ll-die-what-now? kind of friend. Apart from a few Starbucks dates, they don’t interact outside of school or the apocalypse.

They watch the boys go at it on the field like a dozen humans aren’t watching and Stiles runs a snarky commentary on everything the wolves do. Eventually, Erica tugs her head backwards to meet her gaze and says, “You’re happier.”

“I am?”

“You were… weird during the summer. Quiet.”

Stiles is never quiet. Universal constant. 

She shrugs, thinks about burnt lists and the scar on her forearm where a vampire took a chunk out of her, of Peter and Derek and her dad. “I think the summer was kind of my…” she hesitates, gropes for a word, then settles for what she was going to say anyway, because if anyone gets that reference, it’s Erica. “origin story,” she finishes.

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah. And this is totally the coming together arc, what with Jackson coming back and pack, and everything.”

“Comic Avengers or movie verse Avengers?”

Easy or hard?

It’s Stiles’ turn to snort. “Movie verse, are you kidding, when have we ever done easy?”

They start sorting out who’s who, then, and Boyd gets Bruce Banner, easy-peasy. Stiles claims Tony Stark for herself, because she’s human and awesome. Erica wants to be Black Widow if she can’t be Catwoman, but there aren’t enough similarities and who’s Jackson supposed to be, who Isaac? They semi-agree on Peter being Nick Fury, because that’s just Assholes United, but. 

(Neither of them mentions Hawkeye and who’d obviously be him.)

After fifteen minutes of nerdy banter, Isaac stops in the middle of a suicide run, turns to them and says something Stiles can’t hear.

“You just wish you were as fuck awesome as we are, bitch.”

Stiles guesses Isaac’s part and adds, “And you’re totally the Galaga guy anyway.”

The joke probably flies right over the poor puppy’s head, but Erica giggles, because under the sex and the fangs, she’s still the geeky, nerdy girl that used to play My Little Pony with Stiles, back when the world was still okay.

+

“I’m glad you’re done with the origin part,” Erica mumbles into Stiles’ newly curled hair later, sweet and girlish for once. 

Stiles hugs her back and thinks they all are. The past school year made them all grow up helluva fast, but the summer went a long way into making them actual people.

Stiles feels steadier on her two feet than she has since her mom died and there are parts of herself she doesn’t like, but she knows them now, and she knows she can live with them. 

“Steady on,” she chirps as she jogs toward her jeep, waving blindly into the late afternoon sun.

+

Dad cooked. 

Dad cooked an actual, real meal that doesn’t come in a box and he made a salad and set the table and Stiles stands in the doorway and stares, half drowning in memories of a time when the dinner table looked like this every night.

Things That Remind her of her Mom: everything. 

“Dad?” she asks, uncertain, backpack dangling off one elbow. She sets it down, toes off her sneakers, steps into the kitchen. Her father smiles at her. 

“Sit down, kiddo,” he tells her.

There’s chicken in a light sauce, rice. It’s a little bland because he went too easy on the salt and he’s definitely trying to butter her up. 

Eventually, between one bite and the next, he informs her, “You’re a sneaky little shit.”

Stiles puts down her fork, inhales. Please don’t try to make me tell you, she thinks.

His gaze follows her hands, then returns to her face. “I know you left that list for me to find.”

Exhales.

“I know there’s a reason you’ve been using accelerant to burn paper. I know you come home with bruises and I know you cry at night and I hate it. Stiles, I hate seeing you hurt because you are my _daughter_ and it’s my _job_ to keep you safe and your mother…”

He bites himself off, too late, and Stiles hates him, briefly, for how he only ever brings up his dead wife in moments like these, when the mere mention of her is a weapon. But it’s a blade that cuts both ways and he’s holding his spoon so tightly she’s afraid it’ll snap. 

“Dad,” she whispers, quietly. Please stop.

He shakes his head. Not this time. Mom’s been dead six years and the crater she left in their life is still there, unbridged until today. Until now. He shakes his head.

“You’re my little girl,” he tells her, over the first dinner they’ve had together in months, the first meal he cooked for her in over a year. “And I love you.”

He doesn’t say _but_ and she doesn’t make him.

+

In the morning her window is open and her bed smells or pine and fur. She never asks who came to her in the night, who held her through the silent tears.

She never has to.

+

“What in the hell is going on here?” Stiles demands, lunch tray in hand, staring at her usual table. What’s visible of it, between the… six trays placed on it. Danny plops down between Lydia and an awkwardly quiet Scott, making seven. 

Isaac pats the spot between him and Jackson and grins at her, all dimples and eyes. His face is a weapon. 

“Lunch with friends,” Lydia breezily announces next to Boyd, perfectly at ease. Or so it seems. Stiles sits.

She gives an awkward wave all around. Scott, who sits as far from Derek’s beta trio as he can get while still being at the table, lamely waves back. Erica elbows Stiles, steals one of her fries (non-curly) and orders, “Eat, Stiles.”

Stiles eats.

She also develops a mental chart of all the ways this table should be aflame with the power of hatred and feels the sudden urge to go for the nearest fire extinguisher, except, no fire jokes. Bad Stiles.

Scott and the betas (not a band) are pissed at each other. Scott and Jackson hate each other on principle. Jackson is a Jackass to everyone. Lydia and Erica have this alpha female shit going on. Danny is a _human_ who has no _clue_ what’s happening, and Stiles is still thinking about fire. 

+

She corners Isaac after lunch, because he’s potentially the most psychotic beta after Peter, but when he’s reigning that shit in, he’s a pussy cat and Stiles is not afraid to bodily crowd him into a wall and lean up into his chest, asking low and intense, “What the fuck is up with the new seating arrangement?”

And Isaac meets her gaze for all of two seconds before submitting, turning his head minutely sideways. 

Neck bared.

“Derek ordered us to keep an eye on the human pack member,” he says, and then slips past her and away. By the time Stiles pulls out her phone, he’s already gone. 

+

Time Derek has Entered her Room Via Window: 43

Times he Didn’t Scare the Bejesus out of her: 5

Today doesn’t make six. Stiles falls asleep in an avalanche of school work before he comes, despite texting her back, agreeing to drop by. He probably knows what she wants to yell at him for, so he’s making himself scarce. 

She drops into slumber, thinking of all the ways she could punch him in the face without breaking her hand. 

(The bat is out since Deaton helped her soak it in wolfsbane solution. She doesn’t want Derek’s face to fall off.)

She wakes an indeterminate amount on time later to a weight across her middle, too heavy to be a textbook, too warm to be anything but alive. 

Derek blinks red eyes at her in the dark, his legs curled around her feet, his unfair abs against her hip.

“Stiles,” he says and she frowns, sleep-woozy, one hand already in his hair, rubbing like he’s a cat.

“I’m angry with you.”

He flashes fang, stark white smirk against shadows, leans back into her hand. “I know.”

“I thought we agreed that I don’t need you to protect me.” She keeps killing for him, blood and guts and violence, she thinks she deserves better than ‘pack human’. 

“We did,” he offers, easily, still smirking, chin digging into her sternum. He never used to touch her, but now that he’s started, he doesn’t seem to want to stop and his weight pushing her into the mattress is the most solid thing Stiles has felt in weeks.

“Then why…” Head cocked to one side, she bites her lip, thinking. If Derek isn’t making them protect her for her sake, then he’s going it for another reason. It can’t be the pack’s need to look after her, because, just, no. That means…

Oh dear. “You’ve been taking lessons from Peter,” she announces, but Derek shakes his head. She feels it like a shudder up her ribcage. 

“Not Peter,” he denies, and Stiles thinks of lists and pack and orders and says, “You’re using me as an excuse to get them to spend time together. So they’ll bond.”

He rumbles deep in his chest, pleased, either with his plan, or her figuring it out. 

Stiles tugs on his hair because no-one likes shit-eating wolves, doesn’t say, “You’re taking lessons from _me_ ,” even though she wants to. 

Instead she tells him, “I’ll play along. But when they inevitably turn into over-protective assholes, I’m going after them with a rolled up newspaper, just so you know.”

Huffing with laughter, the wolf nods again before falling silent, turning his head to one side, nose tickling her belly. Stiles wonders what her insides sound like to a were’s ear pressed against her fragile skin. Can he hear her heart, lungs, digestive system? Can he hear her dying on a cellular level, death and rebirth every second? Can he hear the way she wants to keep him right here, on top of her, for the rest of their probably short and inevitably painful lives?

She falls asleep without answers and dreams of nothing at all.

+  
“Training,” Boyd says, after lacrosse practice, and Stiles looks at Scott’s angry-yearning-lonely face and knows that she’s being a bad friend, but Scott needs a push and maybe this is it. 

Or maybe she’s playing god with people’s feelings. It’s hard to tell, sometimes, because Stiles looks at people and sees options, moves, possibilities. She’s an amoral little shit and perfectly fine with that, but. Scott.

He waves her on and she goes, betas riding shotgun in her jeep. She texts her best friend with one hand. “Dinner and a movie?”

His answer is an instant smiley. Alright.

+

“What, exactly, is the token human doing here?” Jackson asks once they’re all gathered in the clearing behind the Hale house, Stiles sitting cross-legged in the spot where a few weeks ago, she killed a minotaur with Derek. 

“Just because you can’t bring yours, doesn’t mean we can’t bring ours,” Peter snarks, and it’s a low blow because the reason Lydia isn’t here, the reason Jackson made keeping her out of everything a condition of joining the pack, is Peter. 

Who tortured Lydia mentally for months. Stiles stands, casually brushes off her jeans and walks over to him, slapping him upside the head hard enough to make him bite his tongue. He snarls at her, but there’s a glint of triumph in his eyes and she knows he’s enjoying this. 

Ever since they’ve established that Stiles can be every bit as ruthless as him, he’s started acting like they’re friends. It’s weird. 

“Stiles can hold her own,” Derek finally interrupts the tense silence before Jackson freaks out and tries to kill Peter. Again.

(Things that Repeat: Fire, Hales, Anger, Rage, Loss, Christmas, Danger)

Jackson snorts and Stiles rolls her eyes. He wasn’t there for the summer, didn’t see much of what happened, but it ends now. “Alright then, Scalywolf, you and me.”

He laughs, but Derek motions the others back after a moment’s deliberation. “What? Seriously, Derek? You want me to go up against _Stilinski_?”

And maybe he does have some self-preservation, because the way Derek nods easily makes him at least a little wary of little old Stiles. It’s a start. 

They stand about ten feet apart, wolves ringing them in on all sides, and Stiles sticks both hands in the pockets of her oversized jeans and waits. 

After a minute of growling and waiting, Jackson gets too impatient and lunges. Stiles sidesteps, brings up both hands, breathes in and _believes_. 

The mountain ash circle closes around the werewolf so fast that he actually slams into it, eyes spitting sparks. He growls and she waves jauntily as he starts beating against the barrier with increasingly less human-shaped hands, kicking and roaring in defiance, a literal caged animal.

Stiles grins, pulls an imaginary phone out of her pocket, mimes bringing it up to her ear. Because she won and she isn’t above driving it home. “Hey, alpha mine,” she says, gaze on Derek, “there’s this crazy ass wolf on my ass. Come and kill him for me, please?”

And maybe she shouldn’t use the word ‘kill’, but she does, just as Peter uses a stick to disrupt the circle, breaking free Jackson, who, at this point, is pissed enough to be all claws and fangs and incoherence. Stiles skips backwards with a shriek of honest surprise, stumbles, lands on her ass and actually thinks she’s going to end up wolf chow, when her hand closes around a piece of wood left from the minotaur throwing around the betas.

She ducks under a wild swipe of claws, swings hard and takes out Jackson’s knee.

He roars while she rolls clumsily to her feet, lands one on the back of his stubborn skull to buy more time and then sprints flat out across the clearing and straight behind friendly lines, panting, eyes wide. 

Derek steps in front of her, holding off Jackson like an errant puppy, eyes flashing red. 

“Not bad,” Peter praises. Stiles kicks him in the shin and then brains him with her makeshift bat for setting a crazed baby wolf on her. He spits blood and laughs.

“Asshole,” she gripes. “I had him.”

“And then you didn’t.” He takes a step closer to her and Jackson is still raging at Derek while Isaac half pushes himself between Stiles and Peter. The older wolf steps around him and leans into her space. “You’re not the only one who fights dirty, Little Red.”

+

“Where did you get the mountain ash?” Derek asks later, when all the cars have gone and only Peter is left, lurking around the house like a more terrifying gargoyle. 

“Leftover from the rave. Deaton gave it to me.” She’ll need to hit him up for more. That was all of her reserves. 

“I want you to train with him,” Derek grumbles after a long beat of silence, standing too close, but not close enough. She’s pretty sure he’s inhaling her scent with every breath, on purpose. 

“Magic?” 

“Not everyone can close a circle, much less like that.”

She doubts Deaton will teach her much, but she nods. Shrugs. She can always teach herself if the mysterious vet doesn’t deliver.

“And Peter.”

“Peter doesn’t know magic,” she blurts and, at her alpha’s glare, reconsiders, shrugs. No magic Stiles is ever willing to touch, at least.

“I meant this,” Derek corrects, kicking at the piece of wood she dropped to the floor once training was officially over. “Peter knows tricks.”

“He won’t teach them to me.”

“Not all of them,” he agrees, because they both know that Peter would never, ever make himself expendable, replaceable. As long as he knows more than them, they need him. Stiles is not the only one who plays dirty. “But enough.”

Stiles nods. 

+

Meeting at Starbucks to have meaningful conversations has apparently become a thing Stiles and Lydia do. 

Lydia has taking over ordering for Stiles and she makes the other girl go through every perverse hipster concoction under the sun. They sit across from each other in the window seat and talk about, what else, werewolves. 

“So Peter and Deaton are both going to teach you?”

Stiles shrugs. “Peter will. I haven’t talked to Deaton yet. Maybe Scott can hook me up?”

She sounds insecure enough that she grimaces at herself. Lydia kindly doesn’t mention it. Sometimes the other girl is that. Kind.

“How do you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Be around Peter,” Lydia asks, and that’s the girl who cries in cars, not the bitch who kicks ass and takes names. Stiles reaches across the table, tangles their hands together for the brief moment the redhead will let her. 

“Me and him… not the same as, you know.” She waves her free hand, indicating possession and mental rape and torture.

Lydia frees her right, ticks off, “Hurt, threatened, kidnapped, blackmailed, molested.”

Stiles laughs because the alternative is a panic attack and never being able to leave her room again. When she’s done, she takes a sip of coffee to calm herself down, shrugs. “I literally killed him with fire. So.”

+

“You never have time anymore,” Scott complains when Stiles looks up from where she’s texting with Erica about whether or not it’s pizza night.

She blinks at Scott and doesn’t say, _see how it feels?_

“Jackson officially joined the pack.”

Scott nods. “Yeah. I heard. He sure changed his tune.”

“I guess being turned into a psycho’s pet killer would do that to a guy. And he knew the alternative was going omega, so.” She shrugs, a roll of the shoulders that makes all her bruises sing. 

“Erica said he went all submissive. Bet Derek liked that.”

She shakes her head. “He went wolf. So Derek would believe his intentions. Wolves don’t lie.” She says it with pathos, the way Winchesters preach, “Demons lie.”

Wolves don’t. 

Scott snorts derisively. “Right.”

The look she gives him borders on incredulous because she’s used to Scott not noticing anything not relating directly to him but this _directly relates to him._

“The wolf can’t lie, dude. The human side can, but the wolf is an _animal_. It doesn’t even know what a lie is.”

It’s why Derek lives in his fortress of silence and deflecting threats. He was _literally_ raised by wolves and probably never learned how to tell an untruth. What’s the point, when everyone can tell anyway?

Stiles, who is queen of lies, little lies, big lies, white lies and deadly lies, who has been lying for as long as she has been talking, good lies and bad lies and lies that are meant to be found out to hide the truly important lies, can’t imagine it. 

In a way, being around people who can see through every one of your masks with a simple blip of your heart, is a relief. 

“You’d know this shit,” she tells him, instead of having a moral crisis in the middle of his bedroom, “if you joined the pack.”

He kicks at her ankle, flops moodily backwards onto his back. “If you’re here to pitch a sale, I’m not in the mood.”

Stiles kicks right back, pulls up a blank memo on her phone and starts making a list of all the things she misses about her best friend while the TV drones on in the background.

+

“Stilinski,” Jackson growls, backing her into the lockers after the bell, hallways deserted. 

“Uhm,” she hedges. “Are you finally going to try and kill me? Because, dude, ironic. After all the ways you didn’t kill me when you were actually, you know, the thing of nightmares? Not that you’re not still nightmarish now, that is way too much hair gel, Jesus, what?”

He rolls his eyes. It’s an expression she hasn’t seen since seventh grade, when he found out he was adopted and started trying to prove to the world that he’s worth it. Seventh grade, when he called Stiles a dyke in front of the entire school and told everyone that she wore boys’ underwear. Before that, when he let people call him Jacks, he rolled his eyes like that a lot. 

Stiles knows.

She was usually on the receiving end of it.

“I owe you an apology,” he tells her and she looks upwards because surely the sky is going to fall any second. 

It doesn’t. 

“Okay? What for?”

He growls again. They really need to work on that. “Stiles.”

“You’re sorry for my name?” This time he bares his teeth at her. She throws up her hands.

“Okay, okay. Apology accepted. Now could you maybe back off of me?”

He backs off. He even straightens the collar of her over-sized plaid shirt half-assedly. 

Seriously, what the hell?

She must say it out loud, because he rolls his eyes again. “Derek made me do that,” he informs her, which makes everything a lot less weird and a lot more _oh_. 

He pats her on the head because he’s a condescending bastard and then adds, “We can be friends again, I guess.”

She huffs. “Derek make you do that, too?”

Grinning, he shakes his head. “No. That’s on me.”

Which… _oh_.

With a jaunty wave, he turns to leave her there, completely dumbfounded. Not okay. “Hey, who even says I want to be your friend anymore? We’re not twelve, Jackson!”

Spinning around, Jackson trails a hand down his front lewdly. “Stilinski,” he asks, all douche, “who _wouldn’t_ want to be friends with this?”

And then he’s gone.

Stiles’ life is so fucking weird. 

+

The next time there is training to be had, Peter pulls Stiles aside, dumps about fifty pounds of books in her lap and says, “Read.”

She sets up shop on the porch again, watching Derek throw the pack around and is surprised to find it’s actually… smoother than the last few attempts she witnessed. Erica and Jackson have apparently stopped trying to kill each other with looks and Isaac has learned to contain his shit at least a little. 

They’re almost working together. 

Stiles grins, kicking at Peter’s leg. “Shouldn’t you be playing with the puppies?”

He frowns. “As much as it pains me to admit it, I’m still not back up to my old strength.”

Since he’s lost the red, he never will be. Stiles tactfully says nothing. “So you’d get beat up. Big deal for you guys. Go for it.”

It’ll do some of them some good to see the oldest beta taken down a few notches. Peter scowls at her, lips drawn back over too sharp teeth. Then he stands and actually goes. 

+

“My mother used to sit here to read,” Derek whispers, voice too close and still too low Stiles, perched on the railing where porch meets wall, almost falls from surprise. Peter’s dusty books are far too interesting.

Once she’s regained her balance and saved the book from landing in what might have once been a patch of roses, she flails to get off the railing, apologizing because she knows from unwelcome echoes.

But Derek’s hands are on her waist, stilling her. “It’s fine,” he rumbles. “Stay.”

Stiles looks down at her book, back up at him, out into the overgrown garden. It was beautiful once, she thinks.

“I used to fight her for it. Best reading spot in the house.”

It’s more than Stiles has heard him talk about his family in the entirety of the year she’s known him.

“You don’t have to,” she blurts, suddenly panicked, because Derek isn’t being Derek. He’s kind and thoughtful and patient and usually he’s just not and Stiles has had people try to change her. 

(Fidget less. Talk less. Talk slower. Wear nicer clothes. Be a _lady_.)

She won’t do it to another person.

He raises his head from where he leaned it against her shoulder, gives her eyebrows. “You don’t have to tell me these things, or… or let me in, or something, just because I gave you a dumb list. You can just… set it on fire, or something. It’s not… I didn’t mean for it to be….” She stops.

It’s a fucking train wreck, so for once, she just stops. 

His stare is unreadable, green, not red. Somewhere along the line, Stiles learned to deal with the red better than the green. The wolf is simpler.

Then he shakes his head, buries his face in her shirt, nose tucked up against her collarbone. She waits for him to say something, but nothing comes. She wonders what she smells like to him.

After a while, she starts drumming out the tattoo of her heartbeat on the knobs of his spine. He lets her. 

+

Scott sits, desolate, besides Stiles on the bleachers, watches what passes for P.E. around these parts. Particularly Allison in tight shorts doing some kind of aerobics that looks like it might kill Stiles. It’s why Stiles never takes part in these kinds of exercises. The ambulance had to come for her one time too often. 

So these days, she gets gracelessly banned from anything that requires coordination and spends the next hour sitting in the bleachers in her gym clothes, freezing her ass off. 

She’s not sure why Scott is there with here today, but then he’s the co-captain of the Lacrosse team and the athletics department of BHHC pretty much kisses the ground he walks on, so. 

She nudges his side with her elbow. “Why the long face?” she asks, even though she knows she’s opening herself up to marathon Allison moping. Stiles is a good friend. 

Scott frowns, uneven jaw working. “Allison texted me last night.”

“Oh, the horror.”

He shoots her a glare. 

“Not horror? Are we rejoicing that she’s decided to stop putting arrows in people long enough to text you? Is this a Relationship Development?”

“Her dad is moving her back to San Francisco. She has an aunt down there that’s not in the business and Mr. Argent thinks it’ll be good for them to get away from Beacon Hills.”

Since none of the things Stiles has to say would please her friend, she keeps quiet. 

“Alli thinks maybe this can be good for us, you know. Long distance relationship. She says we would talk more and…,” he blushes right to the tips of his ear and Stiles doesn’t need her imagination to fill in what they’ve been doing instead of talking so far. She’s walked in on them often enough. They’re like enthusiastic teenage sex landmines. 

Were. Before, you know, crazy. 

(The thing is, Stiles likes Allison Argent. It’s just that she stoles her best friend and tried to kill most of her pack that she doesn’t really appreciate.)

“And Deaton says if I try really hard, I could get into Stanford or Berkeley for being a vet, you know? So we could be together again after high school.”

“Isn’t that a bit fast? You’re not even a thing again yet and you’re planning what’ll happen in two years?”

Scott does that angry-constipated thing with his face again and snaps, “I love her. You don’t know what that’s like, Stiles.”

Oh, Stiles thinks, oh. Scott doesn’t even know about whatever-it-is with her and Derek. 

Of course he doesn’t. She didn’t tell him. 

“Alright, buddy. But you’re not, like, going to do anything crazy, like run away to be with her before you finish school, right?” With Scott, you never know.

“Nah. Of course not. I’ll stay here until we’ve finished school. It’s just planning anyway. We’ll see.” And then, because he still knows her better than most, he adds, “But I’m still not joining Derek’s pack, so don’t even start again.”

She does start again. “It’d be good for you. You’ll go omega otherwise.”

On the field, Lydia twists like a dancer.

“Deaton thinks I’ll be fine. Like, I have the potential to become alpha, or something. I won’t go omega. Probably.”

“You definitely wouldn’t if you…”

“No!”

They watch a kid mess up the steps and bump into his neighbour, starting a domino effect that takes down half the class. Stiles promises herself to stop asking. 

+

Deaton stares at her for ten solid minutes before handing her a book, a legal pad and a sharpie and telling her to start studying runes.

Stiles studies runes.

For two weeks, she sits at his stainless steel examination table and alternately holds down angry cats for him and copies runes onto yellow paper until she can draw them in her sleep.

Protection. Strength. Stealth. Ward. 

Fire. 

Once they bleed from her fingers in little twitches, he stands across from her and tells her, “Now will it to be true.”

The whole legal pad catches fire, instantly and brilliantly, like it was only waiting to explode into sparks. Stiles jumps, pours the rest of her stale coffee over it and watches it splutter and die, feeling a vicious sort of pride rise in her chest.

Over the doused remains of it, he tells her, “I deal in protection, in healing. That is not what you are looking for, is it, Miss Stilinski?”

Is it? Stiles thinks of blood under her nails and Erica and Boyd in chains, of Derek with black creeping up his arm, and Jackson gutted and changing in the headlights of her jeep. 

She could have chosen any of the hundreds of runes she drew to activate. She chose fire.

She’s long past protective runes carved into doorjambs and windowsills. 

The vet nods, like he’s reading her mind. 

“Then I cannot be your teacher.”

+

When she tells Peter, he laughs and laughs and laughs.

“Oh, Little Red,” he howls between peals of laughter. “That’s….”

Stiles licks her finger, draws _fire_ on the stack of magazines on the coffee table and thinks, _burn_ , eyes never leaving the wolf’s face.

Peter sobers, nods, and orders, “Follow me.”

This time, they go out into the yard, instead of into the library.

+

“Man,” Isaac complains, hands fisted in his curls, “I don’t get this. At all.”

Stiles, sitting next to him in what was once the kitchen (Reasons Derek Needs an Actual Place with Walls: too many), leans over to see what he’s working on.

Algebra. Eugh. “It’s not really that hard, once you have the mechanics down,” she informs him anyway, elbowing into his space. She studies his solution for a moment, finds the flaw, and points at it. “This is where it went wrong. You divide by that number instead of multiplying and it throws everything off. Think of it as reversing what the mean math-book authors did to the numbers in the first place, yeah?

“I mean,” she throws her hands up, “seriously, who writes math books? Do some people just sit in their basements late at night and wonder how they could fuck with the lives of those young’uns that keep trampling their yard? Because I have this mental image and usually, I see Harris in that basement, doing an evil cackle. Man, can you imagine Harris teaching algebra. Chem is bad enough, but if he taught maths, I would flat out shoot myself in the face, I’m not even kidding, there is not a way in hell I would….”

Isaac is leaning back in his chair, arms folded over his chest. His expression is amused as he occasionally ducks flailing limbs and lets her ramble. Stiles is peripherally away that that’s what she’s doing, but once her brain is off on a tangent, she kind of needs to spell it out or something explodes and that’s just, eugh. 

Speaking as someone who has actually seen what brain matter looks like outside of a human body, she can safely say that’s not a fate she wishes on her own squishy grey bits. 

The puppy snorts at her, bites is lip to hold it in and she’s still talking, isn’t she? 

“Stiles,” Derek calls from somewhere deep in the guts of the house and she feels herself still, something warm and furry smothering her mania. In a good way.

“Whoa,” she mutters. “is that?”

Isaac’s head cocks to one side, expression curious, then surprised. “Huh,” he says, “I didn’t think you’d be included in the pack bonds, since you’re…”

The warm feeling recedes, but it’s still there, at the edge of her awareness, where, she realizes, it’s been hovering for weeks. Pack bonds. It feels like coarse fur and damp breath, like pine needles on bare skin and blood in her mouth. It feels right.

“A squishy, breakable chew toy?”

“Human,” he corrects and Stiles ducks her head.

“Sorry about that. You can stop me when I get like that, you know? Don’t have to wait for the big bad wolf to kill my engine.”

Head shaking, he picks his pencil back up from where it rolled under his book. “I don’t mind. Can you explain again?”

+

Stiles tries to visit her mom once a month, to keep her up to speed and keep her grave from being smothered in weeds. Mom never minded a little chaos, especially if it had nice blossoms, but Stiles likes to sit there and fiddle while she talks. It makes the silence where answers should be a little more bearable.

This month, she takes a detour on her way out, without noticing where her feet are carrying her until she’s standing at Kate Argent’s tombstone. 

It’s been tagged and half-assedly cleaned off half a dozen times since she was buried, but the name is still clearly legible and will be for decades. Katherine Amanda Argent.

Stiles wants to say something smart, something vicious, like, “We won,” but the words won’t come. In her head, a long burnt list of things she knows about Kate rattles past.

Blonde. Tall. Bombshell. Pyromaniac. Psycho. Mass murderer. Liar. Thief. She took Allison, Lydia and Stiles shopping for the spring formal, a thousand years ago and Stiles’ skin was crawling the entire time because it wasn’t crawling at all. Kate seemed perfectly normal to her. Smart. Pretty. Good actress. Statutory rapist.

Repeating all those things doesn’t help Stiles make sense of anything the older woman did. She opens her mouth again, to curse, jeer, gloat. Nothing feels right. 

Eventually, she walks away without saying anything. 

Derek is waiting for her at the front gates. His Camaro is nowhere in sight, so he probably tracked her here by scent. 

It’s stopped freaking her out. 

“Hey, Sourwolf,” she says and then falls quiet because he’s got his grumpy face on, the one that means he’s trying to wrestle all the feels he doesn’t admit to having.

She just stands there, in his space, and lets him work through it. She even keeps the fidgeting to a minimum.

Eventually, he closes his eyes, ducks his head away from her gaze and whispers, “I still miss her.”

(It’s a confession seven years in the making.)

For one, ludicrous moment, Stiles thinks he’s talking about her mom, but then reality reasserts herself. Kate. 

Kate, Kate, Kate.

They’ve never talked about it. He’s never told her (or anyone else) how Kate got under his skin and then peeled it off from the inside, how she flat out _broke_ him and everything he might have been.

Fire.

All Stiles knows is conjecture and assumption and she has no idea why Derek thinks she knows, why he is even telling her this, why he is talking to her at all, but he does and the least she can do is listen. She takes a step forward, closing the gap between them until there’s barely enough space for the light to pass through, and waits.

She can listen. 

He breathes hard, like the confession was a fight, a battle, like he’s run a marathon. Then he snarls, low and vicious with self-loathing, spits, “She murdered my entire family and I still....”

“It’s not her,” she says, quickly. “You miss how she made you feel, not her.”

“How she made me feel is what got them all killed.”

“No,” Stiles tells him, flat out. “What got them killed was a lot of mountain ash and a shit ton of chemical accelerant. You were, what, sixteen?”

“Fifteen,” he corrects. She wishes she’d stayed a few steps back so she could see his face.

“Fifteen. There was no way you could have known.”

He smiles down at her and it’s a bitter twisted thing that says he’d like to believe her, but he knows he never will. Stiles wonders, objectively, what Derek would be like without the fire, if he’d be the carefree, dorky idiot she imagines sometimes. If he’d laugh openly.

Most of the time, she doesn’t let herself dwell on impossible things.

“I crave curly fries,” she chirps, too chipper, grabbing the werewolf by the sleeve and tugging him toward her jeep. He comes without a fight. “You’re buying.”

+

Things Kate is to Blame For:

1\. The fire

2\. Psycho Peter

3\. Laura

4\. Scott

5\. Gerard

6\. Allison

7\. The nightmares

8\. The way Stiles sometimes dreams of fire through the pack bonds now.

9\. The way Derek’s anchor is still anger, because he thinks he has nothing else left.

10\. The way he smiles, like a cornered animal showing its teeth, always.

+

The first time Jackson elbows Stiles and groans, “You are such a freak, Stilinski,” and Stiles laughs instead of getting angry, Scott looks at her with nothing but betrayal in his eyes.

She doesn’t remind him that he started it, doesn’t even pretend that didn’t just happen. She doesn’t try to justify herself, her actions. 

She considers reminding Scott that she and Jackson were actually friends, once upon a time, but doesn’t do that either. 

“Join the pack,” she says, later, on their way to chem.

Scott shakes his head. “No.”

+

It’s late October, but the weather is unfairly warm, so they take their coffees and go for a walk through what passes as downtown Beacon Hills.

Lydia makes Stiles try on a few girls’ things and Stiles retaliates by forcing her into the comic book store.

“I like this,” Stiles blurts, after they’ve thrown away their empty cups and decided to screw everything and have ice-cream, too. Lydia is cliché enough to get strawberry and vanilla. Stiles went with choc-chip mint and a side of actual chocolate. Maybe that makes her a cliché, too.

“Everyone likes ice-cream,” Lydia says, in that prim way that sometimes hides how wickedly sarcastic she can be. 

“I meant you and me, being friends.”

“You’re not so awful,” Lydia acquiesces after a moment, licking at the tip of her cone with a quiet curse to keep it from dripping. “Since you stopped drooling around me.”

It’s a small cruelty only, the reminder of all the years Stiles spent desperately wanting any scrap at all from the other girl and never got so much as a kind look. Stiles shrugs fluidly and returns it, says, “Since you stopped pretending not to know I exist.”

 _What’s a Stiles?_ , indeed.

She lets that sink in, adds, “Do you think you’ll ever join the pack?”

A frown is her answer. “Jackson’s there.” With a sideways look, Lydia allows, kindly, “You’re there.”

She trails off and Stiles fills in the gap. “Peter’s there.”

“Mhm.”

They eat their ice-cream in silence. Stiles stops the other girl from throwing her soggy cane into the trash, polishes it off with gusto. Then she grins at Lydia, who cringes. 

“It wasn’t all horrible,” she admits suddenly. “Sometimes, when I had those… visions, of Peter, he wasn’t doing anything terrible. He just sat next to me, or talked to me about books. He listened. It was… nice.”

There is shame in her voice. 

It’s how Stockholm Syndrome works.

Stiles says nothing, doesn’t even dare touch her friend. Just waits. “I hate him. I do. But part of me…doesn’t. That’s not right.”

Lydia spent the summer being brilliant at an Ivy League college. Stiles spent it trying to figure out if she’s okay with being the kind of person who can kill a man in cold blood and sleep soundly afterwards. She shakes her head. 

“Fuck that noise. You are Lydia Martin. You do what you want to, whether that’s forgiving him or setting him on fire again.”

“I wouldn’t,” Lydia denies, quickly. “Poison him, maybe, or shoot him with one of Allison’s guns, but not fire.”

And that, that mercy, that glimpse of compassionate understanding, already tells Stiles what Lydia will do. She hums quiet acceptance of the statement and switches the topic to the new English teacher while they wait for Jackson to come pick them up.

+

Allison disappears on a weekend, just isn’t there anymore on Monday, on Tuesday, on Wednesday.

Stiles bakes Scott Sorry-your-life-sucks cookies and leaves them in his locker.

+

The first full moon after Jackson joins the pack, Stiles is banned from the run because they’re not sure how it’s going to turn out. The second full moon, after Jackson’s proven that, once you’ve beaten being a kanima, werewolf-ness really isn’t that hard, she’s allowed to go romping through the woods with the rest of her pack. 

Which is awesome.

Derek gives her a long, searching look and then says, very slowly, “We should have less trouble with you here.”

“Because my awesome will stun all your inner beasties?”

“Humans keep us grounded.”

And then, in direct contradiction, he goes all red on her and takes off into the night after Isaac and Jackson, who are playing a rated-X-for-violence version of tag.

(Like this, Jackson’s eyes are blue.)

Stiles takes a deep breath and throws herself after him, all graceless legs and no thinking at all.

God knows, if she were thinking, she’d have run the other way months ago. 

Erica hip checks her (gently) and passes her by with a howl of glee. Boyd, following after her, takes the time to save Stiles from going ass over teakettle into the underbrush and then smirks at her, all fangs, and goes after the blonde menace. Jackson and Isaac circle around, bracket her for a few moments, then diverge again, snapping at each other’s heels. Peter keeps pace a few trees away, a shadow Stiles finds she doesn’t mind.

Derek stays ahead of her, but he slows his pace enough to never quite leave her sight and Stiles knows it’s a concession. 

They run until her legs feel like noodles and then the warm twist at the back of her mind that might be magic, might be pack, might be a lonely girl’s imagination, kicks in and they run some more, following their alpha back to the house, their den, their safe place. 

There is a clearing within sight of the house and they stop there, Stiles collapsing and Isaac and Erica piling on top of her without hesitation. Boyd rolls his eyes, leaps in, and Jackson calls them children with a fanged hiss but sits down close enough for Isaac to hook his ankle behind the other boy’s. 

Stiles is sweaty and bone tired and wondering where Scott went tonight (when she asked, he told her he had it covered) and there are rocks digging into her spine and leaves clinging to her back. She has a pile of panting, semi-feral wolves lying on her, fighting over who gets to mouth breathe into her neck and it’s awful and horrible and the best thing ever.

She grabs two of the puppies by the scruff, squeezes a little and then shoves them off because Derek does enough weird digging of noses into strange places, thanks a lot. 

Erica pouts, lipstick smeared over her chin like blood and Isaac whines and settles his head under her hand for petting. While she absently obliges, Stiles cranes her neck to find the two errant wolves missing from the pile. 

The two Hale men stand a few feet away, shifted but upright, watching the snuggle fest going on. Stiles makes come-save-me eyes, but Peter only winks cheekily and Derek gives her red eyes again. He might be jealous of her awesome cuddles. 

She lets her hand wander down Isaac’s head until it settles on his neck and he goes boneless under her. The relaxation spreads from him until the wolves, exhausted from playing for hours, falls into a light doze, leaving Stiles buried under them, too tired to sleep and very aware of the pairs of eyes staring at her.

“I offered her the bite,” Peter says suddenly, and she knows she only hears it because he means for her to.

Derek snarls viciously.

“Down, nephew. She said no.” Peter sounds amused and Stiles can practically feel Derek relax at the truthful words. 

(Peter has his revenge. Stiles used to wonder _what next_ , but lately she’s started thinking that this is it. Peter has everything her ever wanted. He’s finished.)

“She would have been terrifying,” the alpha rumbles, and it’s half a joke, half something else.

“Wolves born into human skin always are,” Peter declares, and then settles against a nearby tree, a shadow in Stiles’ peripheral vision. Derek wedges himself between her head and the hard ground, her head on his hip. 

She still can’t sleep, gets bored and starts fiddling. At some point, she goes through his pockets and he lets her, watches with indulgent eyes as she rifles through his wallet, quietly comments on his driver’s license picture and the fact that he apparently shops at Anthropologie, although for what, she doesn’t know. 

Behind a few twenty dollar bills, he keeps a folded piece of paper. She pulls it out and smooths it along Boyd’s broad back, gets an unhappy rumble in response and reads _How to be a ~~Good~~ Better Alpha_.

“I was sure you burned that by now,” she admits, then flinches, because fire jokes. No fire jokes.

But he only snorts, takes the list and wallet from her, puts both back in their places. 

“Shut up, Stiles.”

+

“What do I smell like?” she asks, later, wrapped safely in her bed, a night-cool Derek curling around her after dropping his boots and jacket to the floor. 

He stops in the process of burying his face in her soft underbelly, looks up at her, chin resting on her sternum.

He doesn’t seem surprised by the question, or even put out. “You smell alive,” he admits and there’s that terrible relief in his eyes again, that greed-want-please. 

Stiles sits, his head coming to rest in her lap, and bends down until she can feel his breath on her skin because they’re getting ridiculous, really. 

“Okay,” she says, and kisses him.

+

Stiles makes a list of things she learns that year:

She learns to live with a wolf on either side of her, and the way she’s never alone anymore. 

She learns to live with Derek’s big frame anchoring her at night, and with his absences, too, to keep moving without Scott constantly underfoot and to smile at her father silently, keeping the lies unspoken. 

She learns to bare her teeth in a snarl and to stare an alpha in the eye without flinching.

She learns all these things and the only part that frightens her is how easy it is, how it feels like she’s always known all these things in her bones, like they’ve been there her whole life, just waiting for the rest of her to catch up.

+

“So what comes after the coming together arc?” Erica asks idly one night, sprawled over Stiles' legs, armed with five different colours or nail polish and superior strength. 

Stiles wiggles her red-purple-green-blue-orange nails and says, “Whatever we want.”

+

+

**Author's Note:**

> I want to reconcile Scott and the Sheriff with Stiles, but the way I've set this up, I can't see it happening. Scott has drifted too far and I cannot, in any universe, see a father accepting that his underage son/daughter is running around with monsters, risking his/her life daily and having sex with one of them while we're at it. 
> 
> If you have thoughts on that, I can take it. :)
> 
> [My tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/wordsformurder) is now open for fandom business. Come visit.


End file.
